


There is a War

by HeyiyaIf



Category: Vermintide, Vermintide 2, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: F/M, implied ust, leonard cohen reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyiyaIf/pseuds/HeyiyaIf
Summary: The conscription of one Bright Witch name of Sienna Fuegonasus.I blame Leonard Cohen, specifically New Skin For The Old Ceremony.This may evolve, or it may not. I just 'observed' some things and wrote them down. Either way, here you go.
Relationships: Sienna Fuegonasus/Victor Saltzpyre
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	There is a War

  
  
She was not intimidated by this one. Not even a little bit. She noted this with some surprise. When she was younger, she had been terrified of the Hunters.

Moreso, of course, before her studies and the Wind itself had revealed to her that she could incinerate a hunter with a wiggle of her pinkie. This knowledge had certainly been heartwarming (and also, being on actual fire almost every day had a way of changing one’s outlook on a great deal of things, such as what constituted actual danger).

But only a very foolish wizard would neglect entirely reckoning with Sigmar’s witchhunters, and the powers they represented. And only the most exceptionally foolish wizards would do so while in custody.

Whatever else might be said of this Bright Wizard, she wasn’t stupid. Life indeed had seen fit to curse her with rather more intellect than she’d ideally have preferred. It got in the way, at times. Tripped her up.

She felt quite sure it was brains what had landed her here. That and her beloved Wind, but that one she couldn’t stay mad at.

“Fuegonasus?”

The Witchhunter read her family name, tersely, from the paper in his hand, probably an order of some kind, the brim of his hat obscuring his eyes as he squinted at it. He was a tall, gangly figure, all joints, knees and elbows wrapped in a dust coat which, while intended to convey the authority of the Hunter’s office, mostly served to give him the appearance of a melancholic scarecrow such as she recalled them from the vineyards back home. He hunched, slightly, as if aware that he was somehow too long. It made her want to be gentle.

“By all means, Sienna dear,” she insisted.

He looked up with a huff, insulted by her affability. Apparently he had only the one functioning eye, the other covered by an eyepatch. This, too, should have been intimidating. Instead it only seemed to add to the baseline of shoddy sadness.

_Why am I not afraid? Like, at all?_

_Whoooo, the Red Wind answered._

_What’s that?_

_Whoo?_

_What you just said. Repeat it would you?_

_Whoooo,_ and if a Wind of Magic could have studied its nails, this one would have done so _._

Huh _._

“Saltzpyre, Victor”, and the scarecrow bowed formally, almost imperceptibly , a short, stiff gesture. 

“I shall be your escort. And spare your pleasantries, witch. I have read your casefile. I know exactly who, and what you are. Wrists,” he commanded.

She shrugged, held them out, and he shackled them, meticulously and with a very measured harshness, as if for the benefit of an audience she couldn’t see.

Unless it be the one single Landsknecht standing in the door to her cell, blunderbuss in hand. Said Landsknecht fidgeted a bit self consciously, almost apologetically as she passed, wrapped in several rounds of chain and towed along by his superior like so much cattle. He made a final adjustment of the blunderbuss, then dutifully brought up the rear. 

They trudged along a while, the dank darkness of the prison hallway giving way to stairs and a steady increase of light. 

Ah well, Sienna thought. Nothing ventured nothing gained:

“So what’s your name then darling?”

“ Kruber, Maam. Sargeant Markus Kruber”. His answer had the telltale easy manner of the truly competent, a self assurance flying in the face of the rural upbringing his accent so clearly betrayed. It made her hair stand on...well, _even more_ on end. It was a manner that said, hello, I am an amicable sort, and also I will shoot you as soon as look at you if I decide you aren’t worth the risk. 

The realisation didn’t worry her particularly, but it _was_ a little awkward. She focussed instead on the wall of dust coat in front of her face, its shoulders squared firmly against her presence as she jangled along behind. 

“Nice weather for the time innit?” Kruber remarked conversationally, as they stepped outside and crossed over the outer courtyard, and it really was. 

Prison time was poorly kept time, but in the dock being Judged the day before, she’d gathered it was now just past spring equinox. It was still crisp, especially this early in the morning, but the birds could be heard and the sun was rising like it was late for a meeting and really quite embarrassed. She stopped for a moment and looked at the sky, drawing the air in languorously. Her jailor, brought up short, waited with a dogged patience, the shackle stretched tight. She could have sworn he was leaning forward a bit, like an ass pulling a cart.

This was really going to be either too easy, or extremely hard, she thought. Either way, it was already terribly interesting, which to all intents and purposes was a vast improvement in the state of things.  
“So, _Witchhunter_ Victor Saltzpyre, to what do I owe the honours?”   
"The Skaven", growled the dustcoat.


End file.
